February 17, 2012

"All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware" -- Martin Buber

We're each of us on a journey. Even standing still, I am moving through time. Each decision I make is a fork in the road, a crossroads. Sometimes the road bends, sometimes I move uphill, sometimes down. But the road, as Baggins put it, goes ever on and on. This journal entry is about where I am in my current journey.

I moved here to the US almost seven years ago. First of March, 2005, three days after my future wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. Since then the road has had (to say the least) a few ups and downs; we've been through one mastectomy, several weeks of radiation treatment, seven rounds of chemotherapy, a wedding, gamma knife surgery, three house moves and a few more things beside.

It was inevitable, given the nature of cancer, that there'd be humps in the road, twisty turns and even hairpin bends. In places there were sheer drops. In our case, the farther we travelled the rougher it got. We're now in the end-game, we're off the tarmac and on the rocky road into the hills. We've never been here before, and it's a little scary. Oh yes, we'd talked about it beforetime. We had discussed hospice care, clinical trials and disability insurance, pensions and the like, but getting off the smooth blacktop has been hard; we expect a few sprained ankles and skinned knees.

This is not to say that the journey is awful; the landscape in the hills is still pretty! There's still a blue sky, trees, grass, flowers. They are still there, but we need to watch our footing a little more, so occasionally we miss them. But still we stop to picnic a while, look around at the beauty, share our food. But we know that one day, there will be the final sunset on our great journey together.

doyle submitted another fine w/u, explaining everything you might need to know about that useful artifact of American beer culture, the Growler:

In the good old days, before the 18th Amendment, you could either drink your beer at the saloon, or send your kids with a bucket (growler), which could be filled for a nickel. The pail held, more or less, a half gallon. Between the difficulties of bottling, and the tax regulations at the time, grabbing a pailful of ale was significantly cheaper that grabbing a bottle. ...

I can't tell you why I know you're dying,
This wasn't up to meI can't tell you why I can't see you
Or how I know you're there, you're still,
WalkingYour brightness does not hurt me,
Does not blind me, it
Over-encumbers

(A note: this has NOTHING to do with Christine, or Wertperch's famous and wonderful daylog from this day. The date was not arbitrary - it was another part of the given, uninfluenced information from the dream.)